The Cigarette Seller Doesn't Dream
by Belladonna Lee
Summary: DMHP Slash. On the night of snow, Draco is waiting at a street corner for a certain dark-haired someone, whose companionship he would buy for the token price of a single cigarette.


Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

Warning: Mild sexual content, mention of prostitution

A/N: A vignette about an escort and his non-client.

 **The Cigarette Seller Doesn't Dream**

Powdery snow drifted down from the ashen sky, painting the streets a reflective white. Christmas lights shone like many a signpost behind shop windows and upon leafless trees, reminding all passers-by that the annual chaos had arrived, and the year was coming to an end.

At the corner of a narrow street filled with speciality shops, Draco Malfoy stood against the brick wall outside a pub, sharing neither in the cheer nor in the sentimentality. Dressed in understated black, he nonetheless stood out like a black sheep in a white flock. The fur collar of his coat accented his paleness, and a pair of form-fitting trousers enveloped his long legs. Hands in his pockets and an unlit cigarette between his lips, he took in the nightscape around him and waited.

A little distance away, golden lights glowed like flames from the windows of the pub, enticing another set of customers with the promise of warmth and drinks. As the wooden door swung open, human chatter flowed out of the pub and merged with the noise on the street. In the midst of various sounds, Draco caught the strand of a nostalgic tune, the title of which he could not quite recall.

While Draco searched for the song title in his memory, someone snatched the cigarette from his mouth. Jolted out of his musing, he turned to the thief in question, who gave him a casual wave in greeting. Clad in an olive green jacket and a pair of dark blue jeans, Harry Potter exuded a relaxed air Draco did not often see from him. With a flick of the wrist Harry lit the cigarette, took a long drag, and blew smoke at the falling snow.

"You could have asked first," Draco drawled, playing along with the little charade. "I would've given you a fresh one."

His lips curving into a wry smile, Harry leant against the wall and looked towards the street. "For fifty Galleons, right? I could buy a whole box of cigarettes with that much gold." The lenses of his thick-rimmed glasses reflected the orange streetlight, but they could not conceal his expression from Draco's scrutiny.

"But it's my cigarette you want, isn't it?" When Harry did not deny the assertion, Draco stepped away from the wall and flashed his companion a bold smirk. "Well? Are you coming or not?"

Harry contemplated Draco for a beat or two before letting out a chuckle. "Is there ever any doubt in your mind?" he countered without derision, his white breath scattering a wisp of cigarette smoke. "All right. Where to?"

The snow crunched beneath their feet as Draco and Harry walked side by side on the pavement, passing by scenes of festivity they were not a part of. The winter chill had numbed Draco's cheeks, but he could still feel a snowflake or two landing on his skin, a cold prickling that dissolved into nothing in a heartbeat. His gloved hand grasped in Harry's, Draco could not tell whether or not Harry's hand was as cold as the snow kissing his face.

"How's your book coming along?" Draco asked in half-jest. "Are you still stuck in the prologue?"

"It's just bits and pieces of writing I did to while away the time." Harry tapped away the ashes on the cigarette before smoking some more, his gaze gliding from the pedestrians wrapped in thick overcoats to Draco's visage. "How's business?"

"You know how it is. It's the end of the year." Not wanting to dwell on the topic, Draco changed the subject. "What have you been writing lately?"

After letting out a breath, Harry began his narrative, his voice husky and low to Draco's ear. "It's a story about a boy searching for his real father. He runs into several candidates along the way, but he's doomed to be disappointed in every one of them. By the time he realises the father he's searching for doesn't exist anywhere, he's already all grown up."

"That sounds like the story of your life," Draco mumbled. Even without looking, he could tell what kind of face Harry was showing to the world right now—an expression brimming with self-depreciation. "What will happen to him after that?"

"I haven't thought that far yet." Harry admitted. "As I said, it's just a way of passing time."

"While you were drowning yourself in Irish coffee or absinthe or the like, I reckon." The remark earned Draco a chuckle from his companion, even though what he had said was not entirely a joke. Turning away from Harry, he caught a glimpse of a couple sharing a slice of pie inside a cafe. "Have you been with anyone lately?"

"I wouldn't be here with you if I'm seeing someone else." There was a note of wariness in Harry's voice, and his hand ever so slightly tightened its grip on Draco's hand.

Unfazed, Draco cast a glance at Harry's profile. "You know what I meant."

Silence lengthened as Harry drew on the cigarette, reviving the orange spark at the end of the stick. When he exhaled, a sigh accompanied his misty breath. "No, I haven't been with anyone lately." There was a pause. "You are being unfair, you know that?"

"Yes, I know."

Harry shot Draco a disgruntled look, but it barely left a mark on Draco's conscience. They knew each other long enough to have witnessed each other's wretched side. There was no need to conceal themselves behind a facade in front of each other, no need to avert their eyes from the truth about each other.

"I don't have to ask you the same question, do I?" Harry whispered as though to himself. The only reply Draco gave his companion was a ghost of a smile. A look of consternation appeared for a moment upon Harry's visage, but it was soon replaced by resignation.

As Draco and Harry strolled past a closed pastry shop, a cold gust tousled their hair and scattered snowflakes everywhere. Shivering, Draco kept a hand on his forelocks; beside him, Harry ran a hand over his unruly hair, which resembled raven feathers in the wind. Eyeing his companion, Draco threw the hood of Harry's jacket over that windswept mess of a head. Taken aback, Harry blinked a few times before his face broke into a bashful smile.

"Are you cold?" Harry asked. Like a prop in a Muggle magic show, the cigarette vanished from his hand; icy fingers brushed against Draco's equally cold cheek. "I can give you my scarf."

"So said the man who forgot his gloves. I don't need it." With that Draco took Harry's hand and led him down the street, away from the dazzling visions of myriad lights and into the winding bowels of the metropolis.

* * *

The golden grilles clattered shut, and the lift began its smooth ascent. Polished mahogany framed window panes that looked out into the night; the brass control panel, reminiscent of the art deco era, gleamed dull gold; and the bronze ceiling lamp completed the vintage décor that extended to the rest of the hotel. At opposite ends of the lift stood Draco and Harry, their hair and clothes damp from melted snow. A brass key weighed heavily in Draco's pocket but not on his mind.

"If the door won't open and we are stuck in here, what would you do?" Harry asked in a casual tone while resting his hands on the guardrail behind him. His green gaze lingered over Draco's unbuttoned coat for a moment before fixing upon Draco's face.

Unmindful of the stare, Draco looked out the window; the snow-ridden town and the glittering lights shrank little by little beneath his feet. "I'll Apparate and leave you behind—unless you want me to stay or you want to go with me."

"That's quite a dilemma. I'll have to think about it when it happens." A hint of amusement had seeped into Harry's voice. A beat later, he squinted at the ceiling lamp as though in appraisal or in rumination. "Have you been here before?"

"Do you really want to know?"

Ever so slowly Harry lowered his head, held Draco in his gaze for several tense heartbeats, and shook his head. "No. You don't have to tell me."

With an impatience that contradicted his words, Harry closed the distance in two steps and kissed Draco. When his backside hit the guardrail, Draco frowned. Instead of voicing his complaint, however, he closed his eyes, slipped his arms around Harry's neck, and tilted Harry's head ever so slightly to a more suitable angle for kissing.

The smell of cigarette tickled Draco's nostrils; a murmur escaped Harry's throat, but Draco could not tell what he was trying to say. Wrapping an arm around Draco's waist, Harry pressed up against him until they could feel every quiver from each other's body.

A chime interrupted the moment, and with a slight jolt the lift came to a stop. After breaking off the kiss, Draco pulled his head back and looked at the floor indicator. "We are here."

His lips grazing Draco's earlobe, Harry made a vague sound before stepping away. As if needing to feel connected to Draco in some way, he grabbed Draco's hand and led the way into the corridor. _He's more clingy than usual,_ Draco mused as he alternated between looking for the right room number and glancing at Harry's back.

Identical doors lined up along the corridor, their golden room number plates reflecting the copper red walls. When Draco found the right number, he tugged at Harry's hand, unlocked the door with the brass key, and went inside. Harry followed suit and closed the door behind him.

Electric lamps illuminated the interior of a cosy room: thin-striped wallpaper, elegant dark wood furniture, and a large, inviting bed piled with soft-looking pillows. The windows, veiled by translucent curtains, brought a shadow of the night into the room. Draco opened one of the doors, revealing a closet and several coat-hangers. While he hung up his coat, Harry looked about the room with mild interest.

"Do you want to shower first?" Harry asked as he took off his scarf; Draco shook his head in response. "Okay, I'll take a quick shower then." After hanging up his jacket and his scarf, Harry disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door.

Draco took the opportunity to go through Harry's pockets: a wallet for storing Muggle money, a leather pouch for storing wizarding money, a set of keys, Harry's holly wand, a cheap lighter and no cigarettes. A smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Draco took the lighter and clicked it on. The ephemeral flame brought him neither visions nor dreams, only the reality that should he touch the flame, he would be burnt.

After returning the lighter to Harry's pocket, Draco sauntered over to the windows, pulled apart the curtains, and threw himself onto the navy blue bedspread. Hotel room ceilings were often painted white or off-white, and this one was no exception: colourless, featureless, a clean slate that looked all too familiar. Sniggering at his pretentious thought, Draco folded his hands over his abdomen and closed his eyes.

There was a song playing inside his head, a song that one of his regular clients played at times on the stereo during their rendezvous. _What do you think?_ his client had asked while nursing a glass of whisky. _Do you also need a little love to ease the pain?_

The sound of a door being opened brought Draco back to the present, but he kept his eyes closed. Even though the carpet had muffled the footsteps, he sensed Harry approach the bed, halt, and move away. Some rustling sound followed, punctured by a clanking sound from what he suspected was Harry's belt. A moment later, he felt movement beside him, and only then did he open his eyes.

Wrapped in a white bathrobe that was ill-suited for him, Harry was holding up the edge of the blanket. When he met Draco's gaze, he whispered, "If you are tired, go to sleep."

His vision filled with nothing but Harry against the backdrop of the bland ceiling, Draco did not want to look away. "I'm not tired. I was just resting my eyes."

A lopsided grin appeared on Harry's face, and those green eyes of his glistened beneath the warm lamplight. Without ceremony he let go of the blanket, placed his glasses on the nightstand, and straddled Draco. The slit of his bathrobe widened, giving Draco a peek at his bare thighs and more besides. Although Draco was no stranger to either the seduction game or Harry's body, the sight made his train of thought pause in its tracks.

"I see you are enjoying the view," Harry teased before bending down and claiming Draco's mouth, a continuation of the interrupted session inside the lift.

Clothes were shed and discarded like empty chrysalises; sweaty hands roamed over naked skin and fondled sensitive spots. Rubbing his thigh between Harry's legs, Draco felt Harry shudder above him. His face flushed and his eyes glazing over, Harry slipped his tongue into Draco's parted mouth. Even though he was used to being kissed by Harry, Draco was stricken with a bout of light-headedness as Harry licked the inside of his mouth.

The urge to further stir up his partner clouded Draco's thought: he wanted to see this man come undone by his hands. When he nibbled Harry's tongue, he succeeded in drawing a gasp out of Harry. Not giving his partner any room to breathe, he prodded Harry's tongue with the tip of his tongue, stroking it and licking it and tangling with it as if it were another part of Harry's body. Harry let out a low moan and shivered, and when they parted, he seemed at once lost and aroused.

"Tell me what you want," Harry murmured as he brushed his thumb over Draco's nipple, "and I'll make your wildest dream come true."

Those were the words Draco spoke to Harry when they ran into each other more than a year ago. A crooked smile playing upon his lips, Draco placed his hand on Harry's groin and felt a throbbing against his palm. "I shouldn't have taught you that line," he quipped.

"I didn't sound as convincing as you did though." Returning the smile, Harry caressed Draco's side and gazed into his eyes, perhaps trying to decipher what was on his mind, perhaps wanting to see himself captured in Draco's irises. "How do you want to do it tonight, Draco?"

* * *

The fluttering snow continued to fall as the night grew tranquil once more. A pair of bronze table lamps bathed the hotel room in a soft golden glow, complementing the air of indolence that permeated the midnight hour. Upon the windows, a faint reflection of furniture and light overlapped with the snowy scenery on the other side of the panes. With a snap the curtains were drawn shut, and Harry, barefoot and naked, returned to the bed and flopped down beside Draco.

Reclining on the ruffled sheet, Draco shifted his position and rested on his stomach. In spite of his languid movement, he was neither weary nor drowsy. "Have you been to the Leaky Cauldron much lately?"

"Well, they have good coffee, and they don't kick me out in the morning." Harry propped himself up on one elbow and touched the small of Draco's back, upon which was tattooed a heart being pierced by three swords. "How have you been?"

The slight pressure from Harry's hand jolted a piece of memory in Draco's head, a prickling sensation of needle on skin that nonetheless sank deeper into his consciousness than any physical knife could. Harry once asked him why he chose the three of swords of all possible designs: it was one of the few times he lied to Harry.

"Not bad." Draco turned to face his companion, who gave him an expectant look. "I'm not feeling under the weather, and nothing significant happened to me lately. You?"

"It's just the usual. An errand brought me to Aberdeen. Maybe I'll go back there for a proper visit someday. Maybe we can even go together." There was a pause. "Your rule about not going out with anyone. Does that still apply?"

"Yes," Draco replied after a beat.

A shadow came over Harry's countenance, and his downcast eyes roamed over the sagged pillows, the wrinkled sheet, the bedspread draping the other end of the bed—anywhere but Draco's face. Accustomed to the averted gaze and the momentary silence, Draco lay on his side and waited for his companion to deliver the final judgement.

Several heartbeats later, Harry leant over and pressed a light kiss on Draco's bare shoulder; the warmth of his lips left a faint tingling on Draco's skin. "I'll ask again later."

His heart skipped a beat, Draco could not resist running his hand through Harry's hair, dark locks as untameable as the weather at sea. Harry's lips trembled in a prelude of a smile, but his expression soon grew sober once more. Like a cat marking its territory, Harry nuzzled Draco's neck, teeth grazing unmarked skin. Rather than telling his companion to stop, Draco cradled Harry's head and remembered a certain someone from his past: the blue-eyed man he had broken the rule for. Once was enough; even once was too much for his sanity to bear.

Prostitutes were destined for love affairs, one-night stands and fabricated fantasies, not a stable relationship. Someday he would retire from the profession for good, and when it happened, he might or might not tell Harry that no, the rule did not apply anymore. Before then, however, Harry might or might not stop asking that question, and this affair of theirs might or might not die a painless death.

"Are you sleeping?" came a voice close to Draco's ear.

"No." Stroking Harry's nape, Draco inhaled the scent he had come to associate with comfort and warmth and perhaps something more. "I can't sleep when you are trying to suffocate me."

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, a puff of air brushing against Draco's neck like a ghost of a kiss. When Harry moved away and settled down on the bed, he seemed more at ease than before, as though the shadow hanging over him had passed on into the dark. "You can sleep if you want."

Draco made a noncommittal sound, his hand gliding down Harry's thigh before venturing upwards to rest upon Harry's pelvis: a curve that, like everything else that composed this man named Harry Potter, he had come to know well. "You still can't sleep much at night?" he asked.

A hint of a wry smile lurked about Harry's lips; his warm hand caressed Draco's shoulder for a heartbeat or two. "Yeah. I'll just work on my writing or read for a bit."

The humming of the heating system trickled into Draco's consciousness, but what was supposed to be warm air flowing about the room somehow felt a little chilly. The heat from Harry's body gave Draco a flicker of solace not unlike the flame of a burning match, transient but real.

Neither inching closer to Harry nor pulling him into his arms, Draco whispered, "Let's talk for a while longer."

* * *

 _Finis._

A/N: This piece is partially inspired by Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Match Girl". There is also a reference to Massive Attack's song "Dissolved Girl". When Draco is with Harry, he could be himself and not someone else's fantasy. Harry, on the other hand, loses a little of himself whenever he's with Draco. As always, I'm not making it easy for Harry. Thank you very much for reading.


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